Fear is the Heart of Love
by Lady Bordeaux
Summary: Is Jocelyn Anderson rational? No. After all, she skipped town when she was thirteen and went to Smallville, Kansas, to live with Martha Kent, a friend of her mother. Illegally. Things are almost normal, but then Lex Luthor comes to town. Do they fall in love? Nope. But as time goes by, Clark Kent digs his way further into her heart...Clark/OC
1. Chapter 1

**I know. Another one. Just hang in there, OK? This idea's been in my head for a while, and I head to get it down on paper. If you have any suggestions how to make Jocelyn a non-Mary-Sue, I would be grateful to hear them. Also, updates on the plotline of Season 1 might help, because I haven't seen it in a while.**

**The title belongs to "Death Cab For Cutie." I by no means own this small section of their lyrics. The title comes from "I Will Follow You Into the Dark." I also do not own Smallville. **

**Chapter 1**

_**A Favor**_

When it comes to any situation, I tend to focus on the unimportant details. For instance:

**Ex. 1**

Test Question

_There is a puppy in the road, a few feet in front of you. You're about to hit it with your car; what do you do?_

I don't have a car. I'm only thirteen.

**Ex.2**

A Real-life Moment

That real-life moment being right now.

Standing on dead, soaked grass in my neighbor's yard, right beneath the window of William Hale. I'm rooted there, staring at the pile of decorative pebbles at the base of their house.

_Just pick up the pebble, Jocelyn. Pick it up. You're bleeding. You're in pain. Will is the only one who can help. _

Sort of.

_Just pick it up._

And as the reasonable, logical (and often neglected) part of my brain repeats this phrase like a broken record, all I can think of is: _this is Romeo and Juliet. _

Yes. Here I am, bruised and bleeding, and I'm trying not to imitate a Greek tragedy. Lord. There must be something misfiring in my brain half the time.

After another half-hour of internal arguing, that annoying section of my mind wins out, and I sigh in defeat. I pick up the colored rock and slug it at the window.

And it sails straight through, shattering a hole in the glass.

I curse and resist the urge to go slam my head into the wall because _that never happened in the play, now did it? _

On the bright side, I don't have to wait long for Will to come trampling over to his window and hefting it open. He squints his eyes when he sees me, then shakes his head. "Jocelyn," he hisses, "what the hell are you doing?"

_Nice to see you to. _"I kind of have a situation," I answer pathetically, gesturing towards my body in general.

Even though I can't see him well in the dark, I can imagine the cogs turning in his head. He sighs, this time more softly. "Give me a second," he replies more gently, and pulls his window shut. A minute or so later, I hear the front door open and close, and the fifteen year-old jogs around the corner, dressed in nothing but a loose t-shirt and shorts.

Seeing his clothes, I can't help but roll my eyes. "No jacket, huh?" I ask, and I get an exasperated-sounding sigh in return.

"I could say the same to you," he answers, and pulls out a small flashlight. Flicking it on, he holds it up to my figure. Seeing my state of well-being, he shakes his head and gently grabs my hand. "That man gets worse every time, I swear. Come on, let's get you fixed up."

I don't bother resisting, just walk inside behind him. It's at least negative 500 and I'm not in the mood for hyperthermia.

We quietly climb up the stairs, and he leads me to his bedroom. It's small and cramped, as is the rest of their house; a small price to pay for such a large amount of property. Once inside, I sit down on his bed and he vanishes into the bathroom.

His room is exactly decorated, but not bare, either. A few pictures are pinned to a mostly-empty bill-board, and a lone baseball trophy sits on his dresser.

"I haven't had time to stock up since last time," says Will as he reenters the room, holding a small box. "You'll just have to deal with what we've got."

It may sound harsh, but I know Will is just trying to prove a point. There are hidden words in his sentence.

_Tell somebody, Jocelyn. Then you can go to a hospital, be treated properly. Just tell someone._

He sits down next to me and pulls out a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He pours it over the cut on my cheek, and I let out a little wince. "Sorry," he mutters quietly, and despite his tone, I know he means it.

I also know that he hates doing this.

As he continues to clean and bandage my cuts, I open my mouth to thank him, but he cuts me off. "I know, Jocelyn," he says. "You're welcome."

The silence grows uncomfortably loud and I can hear the quiet tick of the clock on the wall behind us. Though Will has never minded the silence, I hate it. I don't like filling up the room with useless chatter, but the absence of speaking has always said so much.

"I'm going to run," I say, and regret the words as soon as they're out. Honestly, this is a decision I haven't actually thought through, and I don't know why I said it.

Will stops with his cleaning for a short moment, before continuing again. That's Will, right there. Always calm, always unfazed in any situation. It's a trait I've tried so hard to imitate, but it's harder than you might think. "What do you mean?" he asks, not taking his eyes off the cut on my arm.

There's no going back. Once William Hale has a suspicion, he keeps to it until he finds out the truth. "I'm going to run. Away. To Kansas."

This seems to be too much for even him to bear without any sign of shock. This time, he completely stops what he's doing and looks up at me, confusion widening his eyes. "To Kansas?"

I almost want to laugh, though I know now's not the time for any humor. _Forget the fact that I'm running away. Of all places, why am I going to Kansas?_

I sigh and focus my eyes on a spot on the wall. I can't look him in the eye and tell him, I realize. Not into the eyes of the boy who's helped me so much this past year.

"My mother used to tell me about a friend of hers from Law School. Martha Clark - Kent now, apparently. She lives in some town called Smallville, on a farm. 'If you ever have any problems, go to Martha,' my mom used to tell me, jokingly, of course. 'She'll know what to do.' I never thought I'd _really _need her help, but know..." I trail off, and risk a glance up at Will.

To his credit, the surprise in his eyes and face has died down a bit. "Now you do," he finishes for me. I wait silently, biting me lip, and I can't help but wonder when Will became the moderator for everything I do. The thought almost makes me want to scowl.

To my surprise, he finally says, "Okay."

I stare. And stare. Then, I stare some more, because this is not the response I was expecting. I figured he would lecture me until the rising sun. "You're on board?" I ask, and cough awkwardly, as if it might make my voice go down an octave from the embarrassing pitch it is now.

He shrugs, and starts to finish up on my injuries. "I think it's a horrible idea, but it's still the best option you really have." He shoots me a look that can only be described as stern. "Besides the obvious."

"Not an option," I respond immediately, and the look on his face tells me he was expecting than answer.

"Do you have anything packed?" He asks as he begins to pack up his medical kit.

I shake my head. "And, ah...I can't really go back." I give him a hopeful look, and know that I'm asking for a lot.

He sighs, and the slightest hint of a smile strays across his face. "I'll lend you some things for the trip," he says, and gets up off the bed. Patting my shoulder gently, he walks over to his closet and pulls out a duffle-bag. As he packs some of his old shirts and sweat-pants, he says, "There's a jacket on the other side of my bed."

I get up off the mattress and go around to the other side. Grabbing the jacket off the floor, I pull it gingerly over my shoulders. I try to stop the wince of pain from passing through my lips, but it comes out anyway, and the jacket falls off.

Feeling incredibly pathetic, I simply stand there as Will puts another t-shirt into the bag before walking over to me and picking the jacket off the floor. Not speaking, he helps me into it, pulling out the hood once it's over my shoulders. I remember not to thank him, because he knows. He always knows.

...

He agrees to drive me as far as the border. Though he hasn't got his license, he's been working on a farm his whole life, and can drive a pick-up truck with ease. Once we're at the dropping point, he turns off the engine and we sit there for at least a half-hour. In standard Will fashion, he gives me the pointers (rules) on what to do. He tells me to stay as far out from the road without losing sight of it. It's essential no one sees me. If I get six hours of sleep each night, it will take me about four days to make it to Smallville. Once there, I'll casually ask around, find out where Martha lives.

As I'm getting out of the car, I feel his hand on my shoulder. I turn around, and I'm struck by the look in those crystal blue eyes of his. "Jocelyn," he begins, and I cut him off.

"I know," I say, very quietly. "I'll miss you, too."

William Hale smiles, and there it is, just like that. The highlight of my day.

I get out of the car and walk away. I don't look back.

...

In the end, Will's estimation is, unsurprisingly, correct. Four days later, I am standing on a porch, soaking wet and shivering from the downpour I've just walked through.

Shaking, I reach up a hand and press the doorbell, and this simple act feels horribly wrong in the strangest way.

For a second, a sick feeling crawls its way into my stomach. I try to push it out, but it's rooted there.

_Maybe they won't answer. Maybe they won't take me in. Maybe-_

My thoughts are interrupted when the door opens. Standing there is a woman with red hair. I speak before she can get a word out, as if making my case sooner will make it seem for convincing. "Are you Martha?" I ask. I know that she is, of course - I've asked over a dozen people - but I need to make sure, need to know for certain. She nods, a confused look in her eyes. "I'm Jocelyn. Jocelyn Anderson. You know my mother, her name's - "

I don't need to say anything more. Her eyes widen and she puts her hand on my shoulder, gently but firmly pulling me inside the house. "You must be _freezing_," she says, and shouts, "Jonathan! Can you get me some towels, please? And quick!"

As I'm ushered towards the table, I'm struck by the kindness of this woman. A woman who finds a girl she can barely put on a name to on her doorstep, and immediately takes her in. She hurries into the kitchen and works on making some sort of drink, pulling out a mug and turning on a heater.

A man with sandy-blonde hair walks into the kitchen, and upon seeing me, looks up at his wife and asks, "Sweetie, who is-"

Before he can finish, Martha answers, "A friend of mine from law school, we kept in touch. She died about a year ago. Remember, we couldn't make it to the funeral? This is her daughter, Jocelyn Anderson. Lizzie talked about her all the time."

The man, Jonathan, looks back over at me, and I almost want to shrink into my chair and disappear. But that won't earn me an ounce of respect. After all, this is Kansas. So, I gingerly reach out my hand. "Nice to meet you sir," I say, attempting to keep my voice from shaking. And failing.

He shakes it, and smiles kindly. "It's a pleasure," he responds, and then grabs a towel and hands it to me. Smiling my thanks, I dry off my face and arms.

A few minutes later, we're all seated around the table. My hand is nearly burning from my grip on a mug of hot chocolate, but after hours of freezing rain, it's actually a relief. My gaze flits around the room, taking in my surroundings. The house has a "homey" feel to it. Flames flicker in the fireplace, and the air is warm.

"So," Jonathan begins, taking the lead in this inevitable conversation. "Why don't you tell us-"

"Mom, Dad, who's this?"

Jonathan stops talking immediately, and all three of us glance up at the doorway. Standing there is a boy, about my age or so, maybe a bit older.

And that, my friend, is when it hits me.

_They have a son._

I should've anticipated this, I realize. But I didn't. I'm not sure why; it's perfectly logical for Jonathan and Marth to have a son. Most people their age have children.

So why didn't I _think _of it?

Martha coughs awkwardly. "Clark," she says, "this is Jocelyn. She's a family friend. She dropped by for a little visit, and we're just catching up."

Sort of true, though it's stretching it quite a bit.

Clark seems to know this, too, a single eyebrow raising in doubt. He shakes it off, however, and steps into the kitchen. He reaches a hand out to me, and offers me a kind smile. "Clark Kent," he says.

I take his hand in mine and shake it. "Jocelyn Anderson."

He steps back after giving me one more smile and announces, "See you after school." And just like that, he's out the door and gone.

For a moment, silence is heavy in the air. Then, Jonathan says, "Well, now that that's over, what I was going to say earlier; why _are _you dropping by?"

I must've looked a bit hurt, despite myself, because Martha adds quickly, "Not that we're not glad to have you, it's just...why now?"

I sigh quietly and look down at my hands, folded on my lap. I knew this question was coming, but now that it's here, I want to get up and leave, run out of the door.

But I can't.

So I say, "I have a big favor to ask of you."

* * *

**So there you have it. I hope you liked it, and remember, reviews are appreciated!**

**:)**

**-Marie**


	2. Chapter 2

**Short chapter, I know. It's kind of a filler. I also know you might have questions, but in time, they'll be answered. Also, if events are out of order, I'm sorry. I haven't seen season 1 in ages, and I'm mostly going off the episode guides.**

**Once again, I own nothing but Jocelyn.**

Enjoy!

Chapter 2

Of All People

Three Years Later

Pathetic.

Weak.

A shame.

"You're pathetic."

"You're weak."

"You're a shame."

Pathetic.

Weak.

A-

"Jocelyn?"

-shame.

"Jocelyn!"

My eyes fly open, hands grasping at the air in front of me. An involuntary shudder runs through me, and I run my hands through my hair.

"Jocelyn, are you alright?"

The words pull me back to reality, and I turn my head to see Martha standing beside my bed, worry crinkling her forehead. I sigh and give her a small smile. "As alright as I can be," I say, pulling back the covers and forcing myself off the mattress.

I hobble off toward my dresser and pull clothes out at random, my eyes blurry from sleep. "I thought these dreams of yours had stopped," Martha says, and even though my back is turned, I can clearly picture the image of her concerned face.

"Dreams," I mutter, despite myself. "That's a word for it."

"What did you say?"

I let out a deep breath, turn around, and trudge my way out the door, murmuring, "Nothing," as I pass her.

As I brush my teeth, I can hear Martha come up from behind me. "Jocelyn, we should talk about this."

I continue to brush, though I really want to rip the thing out of my mouth and _scream_, say, "Martha, I'm not _Clark. _I'm not part of this _family. _I don't share everything with you, I'm not honest, please stop _expecting me to be._"

"Jocelyn, please-"

This time, I do stop brushing, and turn towards her. As I look her in the eye, all I can think is _I can't do this. I can't lie to her face._ So I turn back to the sink, put my hands on either side of the white marble, and say, head bent down at the drain, "I'm fine, Martha. I really am. Just..." My voice trails off, and I run my hands over my face. "Just go. Please."

Silence fills the air, and lord, I still can't bring myself to look at her. I simply stand there, bent towards the sink as I hear her quietly respond, "Alright, Jocelyn. Okay. Just know that I'm always here when you need someone to talk to." And then she's gone, the quiet patter of her footsteps fading as she gets further and further away.

And I feel absolutely completely pathetic.

"You shouldn't talk to her like that."

And now Clark has just managed, _somehow_, to make me feel worse.

"Eavesdropping is rude," I say, and as I continue to brush my teeth, I know that I've just walked into a retort arena.

Sure enough, he responds, "So is talking to my mother like that." He walks through the open doorway and around to my other side. Leaning up against the wall, he continues, "She was just trying to help."

I pull the toothbrush from my mouth and abandon it on the counter. Crossing my arms, I turn towards him, and it takes all my effort and a bit more to look him in the eyes and say, "I know. But I don't need it."

He has this look on his face, the one that makes you feel like you're somehow worse than the worst person on the planet. It stays there for a while, boring into my eyes. I stubbornly stand my ground for about a minute before giving up and looking at the ground.

I hear him sigh, and he says softly, "I hope you know what you're doing, Jocelyn." Knowing that I understand his words in every sense, he gives me one last long, hard look before exiting the room.

"So do I," I say, trying not to focus on the horrible cliché of the phrase. "So do I."

...

As you can expect, this one little dispute makes the whole day suck. Being my friendless self, I am condemned to not only sit alone in the cafeteria, but also be stuck at the back in all my classes.

Antisocial, you ask?

Very much so.

There's always Pete and Chloe, but if I'm being completely honest with myself, they've always been Clark's friends, not mine. So, it's only logical that they jump to his side when Clark and I are having an argument.

When the day is finally over, I sit myself down at a bench in the schoolyard and proceed to start my essay, the hot air causing sweat to pop up on my forehead as I furiously scribble down words in my notebook.

"Writing a love note, Jocelyn?"

I continue to write, not glancing up at Clark as he takes a seat beside me.

Yes, I know. Very mature.

"Yes, actually," I say, "to Pete. You're his best friend, right? Why don't you give me some pointers? I've heard he's into the whole 'love sonnet" thing."

I haven't moved my gaze from my paper, but I can almost feel Clark roll his eyes. "Well," he responds, "you better make sure it's short and sweet. A person can only take so many lines of poetry from you."

And just like that, the tension evaporates. Setting my pencil down, I finally look up at him. He has the slightest hint of a smile on his face, as if he's saying, _smile, Jocelyn. You know you want to_.

And despite myself, I do.

We sit there in silence for a few moments, and for once, it's not awkward or uncomfortable. It's almost peaceful, with the sun shining and the slight breeze ruffling through my clothes.

_Lord, I sound like one of Shakespeare's failed plays._

"Sorry," I mutter, and I turn my eyes down towards the ground, thinking, _I really need to work on this 'respect people by looking them in the eye' thing. _

"What was that?" He asks, and his tone, it's like he's _asking _for a slap. Not that it would do anything.

Except give me a whole lot of satisfaction.

"I'm _sorry_, okay?" I say, and scowl. Crossing my arms, I I turn my head to look at him. His smile is gone, and a strange look is on his face. He knows I don't apologize easy. He _knows_. And still, he prompts me to say 'I'm sorry' every time. Every. Time.

And sometimes, I get the childish urge to yell at him. I want to say, "Clark, we both know you're perfect, and I'm not, so _please _stop expecting me to be."

And with that internal scream, I freeze. Because it's the second time today that I've thought something along those lines.

And maybe that's saying something.

I'm ripped back to the present when Clark says, "Alright." He gets up, pats me firmly on the shoulder, and gives me a light smile. "You want a lift?"

I shrug, and after seeing his raised eyebrow, I shake my head. "I'll just walk." Of course, I don't want to walk at all. Walking all the way to the farm is like running eight-hundred marathons eight-hundred times. In the rain.

Clark sighs and gives me a look. "Jocelyn, the farm is-" I cut him off, shaking my head once more.

"I'll be fine," I reason, and give a little nod, as if that small action of determination will convince him that I'm right.

He gives me a little deprecating shake of the head before saying, "Alright, Jocelyn. Have fun." He waves, gives me one last smile, and walks off across the yard.

As I watch him go, all I can think is how easily he forgives me.

And maybe, just maybe, that's saying something, too.

...

With his abilities, Clark has done some amazing, if not a bit crazy, things. But saving a spoiled billionaire brat from a river? That's questionable.

He should've just let the guy drown, in my opinion.

As Clark sits in the kitchen, receiving a classic Kent lecture from Jonathan and Martha, I'm sprawled out on the couch, listening with a smirk. Clark catches my eye at one point, and glares at me. It says, _if you were me, Jocelyn, you wouldn't be laughing._

He's right, of course.

Doesn't mean it's not funny.

Once Clark is released from the kitchen, he collapses on the couch next to me, a grim look on his face. "Of all people, Clark, why did you save-"

He shakes his head and says, "Don't." There's tension in his voice, along with a drop (gallon) of frustration.

I shrug, and put my feet up on the coffee table. "It's a reasonable-"

"Feet off the table, Jocelyn!"

"-question," I finish, quickly withdrawing my feet and placing them on the floor. "You have to admit that."

Clark sighs and puts his hands behind his head. "I was just trying to do the right thing," he says quietly, his eyes downcast.

I let out a breath of my own and gently grab his hand. That sentence is Clark's whole persona in a nutshell. Always wanting to help people, always trying to do what's morally right. But what he doesn't seem to understand is that sometimes it's not as simple as "right and wrong." It's not always black and white. There are shades of gray in between, times when the very basis of morality is questionable.

But I don't say this. Instead, I whisper, "I know, Clark."

And I do.

* * *

**I hoped you liked it! I would be incredibly grateful if you reviewed. Even just a few kind words mean the world to me.**

**:)**

** -Marie**


	3. Chapter 3

**I know. I haven't updated for a while. I made a promise to myself to update every weekend, but it didn't really work out, as you can see. You just never know when the writing bug will bite, I suppose. :) I hope you liked this chapter. I know it's incredibly short; I've been blocked, lately. And thank you to those who reviewed. It means so much to me! You guys are the best.**

**Chapter 3**

_**A Quality that is Lacking**_

I've already said that I have a habit of focusing on unimportant details in dire/serious situations, and that's very true.

I also have a habit of wondering. A lot.

It will be the middle of school, in Geometry, or History. I'll be sitting at my desk as the teacher drones, and without any warning whatsoever, my mind just _drifts. _My thoughts completely run away from me, and I'll just sit and think about my life.

Mostly, I think about the possibilities, roads that I could've taken but didn't. No matter how horribly, disgustingly cliché it sounds, it's true.

_What if my dad hadn't joined the army?_

What if my aunt had never gotten sick?

What if Martha and Jonathan hadn't taken me in?

...what if I'd been a little bit stronger?

And I don't only think about 'what-if's concerning me, but other people as well. For example, I sometimes think about Clark's what-if's.

Like I am right now.

_What if he was human?_

You know, not an

alien.

Yes, alien. You heard me.

The bomb has been dropped, and the nuke detonated. The ground obliterated.

And now I'm waiting for the dust to settle.

...

Normally, I would be able to carry on through my day after a particularly shocking truth - over the past two years, I've tried to train myself to be more like Will, more calm and level-headed.

But this - this revelation that Martha and Jonathan told me this morning - it's a bit more surprising than anything I've prepared myself for. So I give myself a free pass to be shaken up. I think I probably deserve it.

Naturally, Clark is worse. His parents told him before they told me, unsurprisingly. I'd have done the same thing.

I try talking to him a few times during the day, but each time he manages to escape before I get a word out. Eventually, I catch him outside of class. "Clark-" I begin, but I'm cut off.

"I'm fine, Jocelyn," he tells me, and we both know that it's not, in even the smallest sense, true. "Just leave me alone."

He stalks off in a very un-Clark way, pushing his way past the students that are filing into the hall. A few let out protests as he shoves his way past them, and walks out the school doors.

Yes. Clark is taking it much worse.

...

Did I mention that Lex Luthor gave Clark a truck? Which he gave back, per Jonathan's orders?

No. I thought not.

While I'm not an expert on the merits of rich people, I've heard enough of Lex Luthor to be suspicious of his sudden kindness.

Yes, Clark saved his life. Yes, he owes Clark a lot.

But giving him a truck? That's a bit much.

And you never know if he might ask something in return. I can't help but be suspicious.

Solution?

Going to the Luthor mansion.

So, here I am, standing on the doorstep of a manor that would put the White House to shame. I'm tired and sweaty, having walked all the way here. Why, you ask?

Think about it. Do you think Jonathan would let me borrow his car to talk to _Lex Luthor _of all people?

That's what I thought.

I ring the doorbell, and the sound echoes, even outside the house. Minutes pass and I began to sweat even more, beads of moisture rolling down my face as I begin to tap my foot impatiently.

_Stop tapping your foot, Jocelyn. That's cli-_

"Who are you?"

A deep voice jerks me out of my thoughts, and I look up to see a burly African American man dressed in a black suit. He glowers at me, and I cough awkwardly, trying to get ahold myself. "Jocelyn Anderson," I say, and after a moment, "sir." His expression doesn't change. "I'm a friend of Clark Kent's."

This time, he nods. "I'll tell Mr. Luthor you're here," he says in a booming voice, and soundlessly slips back into the house.

So, he has security guards that are not only 6'8, but also on steroids. Fantastic.

A few moments later, the door opens once more. The guard is back, and still alone. He moves aside and motions for me to come in. "He'll see you," he says, and I step inside.

The house is unsually quiet. The walls are a deep, rich brown, and paintings splatter the walls on each side of the twin staircases. The guard leads me up the one on the right, and through a series of hallways. The floor is mostly polished wood with a few lush rugs here and there. Small lanterns are posted on the walls in some places, and I can't help but wonder if there's real fire in them.

I'm stopped in front of large double-doors. The guard moves aside once more and opens one door for me. Giving him one last glance, I nervously walk through.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I'm standing in a large office room. And sitting at the desk is none other than Lex Luthor.

I try to swallow my discomfort as he looks up at me. "Jocelyn Anderson, right?" He asks, getting up and walking over to a small table on his left. He pours some kind of whiskey into a glass and turns back around.

The expression on his face is unreadable. I can't help but feel nervousness creeping into my veins as he stares at me quietly, sipping his drink. I nod, remembering what he asked.

He sets down his glass, and then, to my surprise, smiles very slightly. He walks up to me, holding out his hand. "Lex Luthor." _No, really? _"It's a pleasure to meet you."

Shell-shocked, I grasp his hand and shake it, fighting to keep my voice from cracking as I say, "The pleasure is all mine." I force a smile.

He smirks, and turns back around to pick up his drink. "I'm sure," he replies. "I can see how _thrilled _you are to be here." He faces me once more. "It's written all over your face."

_So, he's no stupid. That will make this easier. _"I'm here to talk about Clark," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. Crossing my arms, I continue, "I want to know what you want with him."

There is a long moment of silence as we face each other. I remember what I told myself when I first met Jonathan - that not looking somebody in the eye would gain me no respect. So, I force myself to meet his eyes and not look away as the seconds pass by.

Finally, Lex replies, "You seem to be quite protective of him. I've heard that you live with the Kents?"

Trying to keep the surprise from showing on my face, I ask, "Where did you hear that?"

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Small town," he says, as if that's the answer to everything in Smallville.

"I don't buy that." That words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Lex raises an eyebrow, and I inwardly curse myself. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, Jocelyn, what were you thinking?_ And because of that stupidity, I think, _well, I've already started it. Might as well finish it. _"You've probably been reading up on Clark."

Silence.

Then, more silence.

My eye begins to twitch, and my palms start sweating, despite the cool air.

After what seems like eighty-six years, the wealthy man replies, "You're a smart girl, Jocelyn Anderson. That much is evident." He takes a drink of his whiskey and continues, "But you also seem rather blunt. Straight-forward." He walks towards me, setting down his glass once more.

_Drink it or pour it, honestly._

He's right up in my face now. "That is a quality that is lacking in our society, these days," he says, very quietly. "It's lacking for a reason, Jocelyn."

I'm silent, because, honestly, I'm not quite sure what to say.

Suddenly, he backs up. "You're a good friend of Clark's," he says, "and I understand that you want to protect him." He smiles at me once more. "But there's nothing to worry about. I just want to properly thank Clark for saving my life."

I nod, and begin to walk towards the door. I'm about halfway there when I turn back to him, meeting his gaze. "You can thank him," I say, "by staying away from him."

I turn and walk out the door.

* * *

**I hope you liked it! I know I didn't elaborate much on the whole "Clark is an alien" thing, but I'll get to it, I promise. I'm also having trouble getting Clark's character right. I know about 23 year-old Clark, but 15 year-old Clark is much different.**

**Any suggestion would be ****_very _****much appreciated, as would any reviews.**

**:)**

** -Maria**


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